


innocence is burned in flames

by ceserabeau



Series: into the fire [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:44:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2734772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Chins up,” Effie says, and she tilts your head with her knuckle; “Smiles on.”<br/>You wonder what Peeta would say if he could see you now. </p><p>Katniss in the Capitol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Iron_ by Woodkid. Katniss' version of _your eyes betray what burns inside you_ , her POV.

The Capitol is glittering lights, twinkling, blinding. It feels so far from home, from the safety of Twelve, the quiet hush of the forest, the feel of coal dust beneath your feet.

“Katniss,” Haymitch is saying from somewhere far off. “Katniss, it’s time to go.”

You turn: he’s in an ugly red suit, hair slicked back against his head. Behind him Effie lurks, a shadow in purples and blues. She’s smiling, all bright white teeth; Peeta’s were that colour before he started coughing up blood.

“Where are we going?” you ask, taking a stumbling step forward.

Haymitch reaches out to catch you, hand curling around your arm, fingers brushing up against the fan of feathers on your shoulder. “Steady,” he murmurs.

“We’re going to the Palace,” Effie trills. “The biggest celebrations of the year – all for you.”

_All for me_ , you think, and feel sick to your stomach. You try not to let it show, but it’s hard. There’s so much blood on your hands.

“Chins up,” Effie says, and she tilts your head with her knuckle; “Smiles on.”

You wonder what Peeta would say if he could see you now.

-

There’s a lot of Victors. It’s not something you’ve ever thought about before, but it makes sense: seventy-four years worth of Games equals seventy-four years worth of Victors.

Haymitch guides you through them, a hand in the small of your back, voice a whisper in your ear: “That’s Beetee and Wiress, and I’m sure you’ve heard of Enobaria. Seeder, Lyme over there – the little one with her is Mags.”

They stand out amongst the Capitol citizens, normal hair and eyes and skin in between the colours of the rainbow. The only one you don’t spot is Finnick Odair, until he appears at your elbow with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“I have to say,” he murmurs, “I think I like this getup of yours. You look pretty terrifying.” His eyes are assessing as they rake over you, all the skin of display. “What happened to the pretty little girl dresses?”

Your blood runs cold. A pretty little girl: you haven’t been that in a very long time. “I outgrew then,” you snap. “Did you want something, Odair?”

The curve of his lips is smug. “Calm down, 74,” he says, and the nickname sets your teeth on edge. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about your boyfriend. I know how devastating that must have been for you.”

Memories of Peeta in your mind: his eyes, his smile, the tentative brush of his hand against yours. Something sharp and painful twists in your gut, a sob tearing at your throat, and you flee, glass shattering to the floor in pieces like your broken heart.

-

Later, Cinna in your bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed as you lay down to sleep. “You did so well,” he says quietly, hands smoothing down the comforter inch by inch. “You can do this, Girl on Fire.”

Oh that name, all those good intentions. It seemed so much easier with Peeta by your side, buoying you even in the darkest times. His strength was always yours. Now it’s just tastes like ash in your mouth.

“What are you thinking about?” Cinna’s fingers are soft where they tuck your hair behind your ear. “Did you enjoy the party?”

Outside the window there’s the sound of a hovercraft taking off. Such a familiar sound, only you can’t see where the great claw is reaching down to take away the fallen, to take away Peeta. You can still see him being lifted up into the sky and you stared at it until it was just a black smudge disappearing over the horizon.

Cinna pulls the covers up until the brush your chin. He leans to press soft lips to your forehead; this close his eyeliner glints like diamonds. “Sweet dreams,” he says against your skin.

In the dark, you close your eyes and try to breathe. This is the Capitol: there are no sweet dreams here.

-

Snow makes you nervous, all cold eyes and killer smile. He sits across from you, fingers steepled like a school teacher. There are roses on the table between you; they fill the room with a cloying, suffocating scent. You gag on it.

“Let me congratulate you again on your victory,” he says, like he can’t see how hollow it is for you. “You fought very hard in the Games, Miss Everdeen. But now, as a Victor, you must repay the kindness the Capitol has shown you.”

It doesn’t hit you for a moment, what he means, but he just stares at you with those snakelike eyes, that cruel smile, and it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room.

This does not belong to him. This does not belong to the Capitol. This belongs to a boy with blue eyes and blonde hair, a boy who smelt of baked bread and the sweet scent of sugar, a boy who held your hand and kissed your face and smiled so sweetly.

This belongs to a boy who is dead.

-

A dark room, hands around your neck, pressing along your ribs, digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. There’ll be bruises in all these places tomorrow that you’ll feel when you sit at the breakfast table with Haymitch and pretend nothing’s wrong.

“Beautiful,” a thin voice whispers in your ear; "Oh, _Katniss_.”

This man bought you medicine for your burns, healed your with his money. You have to get on your knees for him, bend over for him, let him force his way inside you, let him press his sweaty face into your hair, press his greasy hands into your skin, and at the end say _thank you_ and _I hope to see you again soon_.  

You struggle to hold back the screams that threaten to explode out of your mouth, but you can’t quite stop the whimpers, the quiet cries of pain and loss.

You understand now why Haymitch drinks: surviving the Games was always the easy part.

-

Capitol parties are spectacular, hundreds of people crowded into rooms that glint and sparkle in a thousand different shades. The music shakes the floor, vibrating through your skin, along your spine. Liquor flows freely; you see how it easy it was for Haymitch to become an alcoholic.

The crowd swarms over you as you push your way through them. Too many hands reach for you, greedy and grasping. The panic rising as they close in around you; you miss the wide open space of the woods.

“Relax,” a voice says, mouth a hairsbreadth from your ear, hand curling around your shoulder protectively. "Just breathe, Katniss."

When you turn, there’s blonde hair and blue eyes – for a second you thinks it’s Peeta standing there, but then you blink and it’s just another victor: tall, blonde, beautiful.

“You’re going to be fine,” Cashmere says softly. “Come with me.”

She puts a hand on the small of your back, leads you through the crowds, and this time they part like water around you. At the back of the room is a large booth, hidden in the dark. There’s someone sitting there: Johanna Mason, dark hair spilling over her collarbone. She looks almost elegant in a shimmering ball gown, but you watched her Games: she’s as vicious as the rest.

“So you brought the new girl,” she says snidely, “Why am I not surprised? You always did have a soft spot for them.”

Cashmere rolls her eyes, shoves Johanna over to make room for you. “Ignore her,” she says to you; “She’s just jealous of the attention.”

Johanna snorts, but she relaxes back against the leather of the booth, pushes a glass of something bright blue into your hand. You sip it; it’s sweet and sticky, slides down your throat like poison. Johanna’s mouth curves into something wicked, and she reaches over to top up your glass.

You wonder if this is what friendship looks like, here in the Capitol: keeping the sycophants away, making sure your glass is always full.

Out in the crowd, a familiar face amongst the others: the man from last night, maybe the night before, or the one before that. They all seem the same, night after night after night, memories of hands and mouths and whispers in the dark blurring into one.

Johanna follows your gaze. “You know him?” she asks.

“He was –” The words stick in your throat. “I had to –”

Cashmere puts a gentle hand on your arm; her nails have tiny birds on them. “We get it,” she says kindly; “We’ve all been there.”

Across the table, Johanna nods. “But don't worry,” she says, and her eyes are bright with anger, glowing like coals in the dark, “One day, we’ll make them pay for it.”

-

“We’re going to start something,” Haymitch says.

On TV they’re showing some Capitol drama starring Finnick Odair. It’s total trash, the kind of thing only Capitol citizens could like; Finnick looks like a doll in all that makeup. But it’s better than the other channel: highlights of your Games. There’s only so many times you can watch Peeta and Rue and Cato and Marvel die before you want to claw your eyes out.

“What might that be?” you ask.

Your nails are getting long again: Effie will want to take you to get them redone soon. You wonder vaguely what colour she’ll choose. An orange would be nice; Peeta always loved orange.

“A rebellion,” Haymitch says quietly; “A revolution.”

You look at him like he’s gone mad, but he’s calm, serious. “That’s suicide,” you tell him, like he doesn’t know. “I can’t believe you’d be that much of an idiot.”

“The districts are restless,” he says, leaning close. His breath smells of liquor but you’ve never seen him look so sober. “What you did for Rue, what you would’ve done for Peeta – they saw you defy him, Katniss. They saw you stand up to him.”

You snort: “It was a mistake,” you say. “I never meant to.”

You didn’t, no matter what they saw, no matter what Snow thinks. You were just trying to protect those you loved: Prim and Rue and Peeta, but oh god you never got to tell him that.

On screen, Finnick Odair laughs like he’s in on the joke.


	2. Chapter 2

Johanna Mason is not what you expected.

You remember her Games, thirteen years old in front of the TV screen. A tiny girl with downcast eyes and frail limbs who’d shook like a leaf before the roaring crowds of the Capitol; chances of her winning were a record low of 70-1. Then the gasps of disbelief when she’d torn her way through a Career pack like it was nothing, hands slick with blood around the handle of her axe, and she’d looked up at the camera and snarled like a wild animal.

That Johanna Mason is at odds with the girl who held your hand under stark bathroom lights, who helped you to your feet, bathed you and dressed you, who’d tucked you into bed and stayed by your side through the nightmares that followed.

“Tell me about her,” you ask Haymitch over the breakfast table.

He shrugs. “Not much to tell.” He takes a huge bite of a muffin, washes it down with a swig of liquor. “She played the Capitol at their own game. She got them to underestimate her and then she made sure she came out on top.”

You frown at him; Haymitch is nothing if not evasive. “I don’t care about her Games,” you tell him. “I want to know about _her_.”

The look Haymitch gives you is wary, uncertain, but he opens his mouth anyway. While he talks, while he explains everything – rage and pride and sorrow and everything in between – you think of Johanna in the bathroom, her raised eyebrow, the dark pools of her eyes. She looked knowing, hollow.

She has blood on her hands too.

-

A bright morning in the Capitol, blue skies and the bite of winter in the air. When you make it to the kitchen, Haymitch is there, fiddling with the stove. You slap his hands away before he sets fire to something.

“Pretty sure we have people to do this,” you tell him, but you let him hand you a pan, crack the eggs into it.

You watch them cook, sizzling away. The room smells like home, and you think of Prim, a thousand miles away, flipping eggs as the sun rises over the mountains in Twelve.

Haymitch’s shoulder touches tours, searching: “Have you thought about it?” he asks.

He doesn’t say it this time, but you know what he means: rebellion, revolution. These are the kind of words that get people killed.

“I’m not doing it.” You splash a little more oil into the pan; the eggs pop and sizzle. “I’m not going to keep saying it, Haymitch: I’m not interested.”

His hand darts out to encircle your wrist, fingers digging in. “Are you looking forward to being a mentor?” he asks, low and vicious. “Are you looking forward to sending more kids into the arena?”

A noise escapes your mouth, an animal sound: the thought of the next Games, seeing more innocents Reaped, watching them fight and bleed and die – it cuts to the bone.

“We may never get this opportunity again,” Haymitch says, leaning into you like he can see where you’re starting to crack. “We need to act now. We need to make our move.”

You glance at him and his eyes are boring into you, almost desperate.”No,” you snap. “Don’t ask me again.”

Haymitch’s nails dig in, sharp to the point of pain. “Then their blood’s going to be on your hands, sweetheart.”

When he stalks away, he shoves the waiting plates off the counter; the sound they make is deafening. In the pan, the eggs are shrivelled and blackened. It’s nothing new: death and destruction have always followed you wherever you go.

-

Tonight it’s a Capitol club where the lights move too fast and the music shakes your entire body. In the dark your body is singing electric from the drink, from the drugs. People move around you, fluid, dancing and grinding, bodies rhythmic against you. Whoever you came here with is long gone and it’s fine, it’s okay because you’re gone too, lost in the beat.

You see a face you recognise, one of those endless men. It rises, dips, disappears beneath the ripples of the crowd. Someone else appears: dark skin, golden eyes: Rue, head thrown back as she dances. Next to her, bobbing, swaying: Cato: he smiles when he sees you.

A hand catches your hip, spins you and you open your mouth to object but then you see blue eyes, burning bright – oh, it’s Peeta, his hands sliding around your waist. His lips are softer than you remember, thinner, where they press against your cheek, the curve of your lip. His voice is different when he says, “I’ve been thinking about you, Miss Everdeen.”

Everything goes liquid. The floor is a long way down.

Hands catch you, pull you upright: “Come on, 74,” a voice says, “Let’s get you out of here.”

You get a glimpse of sea-bleached hair, eyes like waves, but it’s faint, blurry. The hands lift you up, and you let them take you away.

Outside the air is ice cold, burning its way down into your lungs. Something shifts, the fog lifting, and you take huge gasping breaths, desperate and painful. The hands are leading you somewhere, but it’s too hard to focus on anything other than walking.

“One foot in front of the other,” the voice says, and it sounds familiar now. “Come on, Katniss, keep it moving.”

A flight of stairs, a door opening, the ding of an elevator. The lights are too bright in here; they make you feel sick to your stomach. When the doors slide shut you finally see who the hands are: Finnick in a shirt that’s barely a shirt. He smiles at you in the mirror, sad and knowing.

Fifth floor and you’re stumbling down the hallway, into an apartment. Johanna’s there to greet you and she leads you on shaky legs to the bathroom. She’s entirely unapologetic when she throws you in the shower and turns the water on.

“Jesus, Girl on Fire,” she mumbles, pushing your hair back from your face, “What the hell happened to you?”

The only thing you can do is lean over the drain to puke.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses; “Finnick, go get me some water.”

He grins at you from the doorway but you can see the unhappiness there: “Your wish is my command,” and he vanishes back into the darkness.

In the silence, Johanna combs her fingers through your hair. “What did you take?” She asks. You can only shrug; you were more concerned with forgetting than knowing what you were putting in your mouth. “It’s okay, it’ll be over soon.”

Finnick comes back in with measured footsteps; he sets a glass of water on the counter. “I’m in the other room if you need me,” he says, and disappears once more.

Johanna tries to put the cup to your lips, but you bat at her hands. “Get _off_ ,” you snarl. You’ve never liked being treated as a child.

She just slaps your hands out the way, makes sure you get all the water down before she lets you go. When you’re done retching, she tilts your face up to hers. You struggle, but she has you caught.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she says. “Don’t ever let them know you’re weak. Don’t ever let them see you with your guard down.” Her face is angry; _rebellious_ Haymitch would say. “Down ever show them your throat.”

-

“Tell me something about yourself,” Johanna says.

Another late night has brought you here: her bed, your head in her lap. Finnick was there somewhere, in between the bar and the street and the apartment, but he’s gone now, faded back into the shadows he came from. Now, Johanna twists your hair around her fingers, half-drunk and distracted.

“I have a little sister,” you tell her.

Above you Johanna rolls her eyes. “I know that,” she says. “You volunteered, remember? I was watching.”

You feel warm all over, the idea that she’s had her eye on you this whole time sparking something low in your belly.

“Her name’s Primrose,” you say. “She’s thirteen. She’s the kindest person in the world.”

“She must be,” Johanna murmurs, “For you to volunteer for her.”

It makes you shrug: “I’d do anything for her.”

“Even die?”

You don’t say anything; it’s obvious what you’d do for Prim, how far you’d go to protect her. But down this path lies madness so you roll over to look at Johanna expectantly. “Do you have any sisters?” you ask.

Johanna goes deadly still above you. “I did,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “But they’re long dead now.”

You watch her, the way her eyes are distant, haunted. “What happened?”

“A fire.” She jerks, like flames are dancing right before her eyes, threatening to set her on fire. “The whole house went up. I buried them all.”

There are tears in her eyes, and you know why: you’ve seen what fire can do, how it burns through a home in moments, destroying everything in its path. It’s not something you’d wish on anyone, least of all someone who’s already suffered so much.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur and Johanna sighs, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks.

“It was a long time ago,” she tells you, but you can see the sadness in every line of her body: these wounds are still raw.

You reach up to wipe the tears away. “Want another drink?” you ask.

She laughs, fragile but more like herself. “Maybe later,” she says, and tugs playfully at your hair.

“Stop it,” you say, slapping at her hands. “Come on, stop it!” You catch her around the wrists, laugh at her, say imploringly, “ _Jo_.”

You don’t know when you started calling her that, but you like the way her mouth curls when you do.

-

This time it’s Cinna, as he wraps a long swathe of silk around your shoulder: “They need you,” he whispers.

Your outfit today is shades of green: the colour of the forest in summer, the meadow when the flowers bloom. In the mirror you’re a strange creature, one of the nymphs your mother used to tell you stories about. The Capitol will like this look.

“Are you listening to me?” he says, and his fingers brush your hair from your shoulders. “Katniss, this is important.”

When you glance at him, his face is solemn. He didn’t look like this when he set you on fire, when he watched you disappear into the arena.

“Don’t tell me you’re in on it too,” you tell him, trying for flippant. Anything else and you’re going to cry.

Cinna snorts. “Did you think it was just Haymitch?” His face is quietly amused.

It startles a laugh from you: “Obviously not,” although you wouldn’t put it past him; he’s always been a sneaky son of a bitch.

Cinna nods when he sees your understanding. “There’re a lot of us,” he says, and his hand comes up to touch your face, familiar and comforting. “Enough to make a difference.”

You frown at him, pull away. How much of a difference can a handful of Victors and some prettied-up Capitol citizens really make?

“You should find someone else,” you tell him, turning back to the mirror. Your reflection doesn’t look as hollow as you feel. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Over your shoulder Cinna’s lips curl delicately. “I doubt that.”

His hand is like the wind, whipping the fabric up around your head like a hood. You do a double take: it looks like the jacket from the arena, the one you wore when you were getting blood on your hands, the one Peeta wore when he died in your arms.

You shiver, and Cinna reaches out to clasp your hand. “I’m still betting on you, Girl on Fire,” he says.

-

You kiss her for the first time on her balcony in the dead of winter with only the stars as witnesses.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” you say against her lips and Jo jolts in the circle of your arms. When you look at her, her mouth is opening and closing like a fish; it makes you chuckle. “Don’t tell me I’ve made Johanna Mason speechless.”

It pulls a smile to her lips, something surprised and sweet. But then it sours suddenly: “What about Peeta?” she murmurs.

The name hurts somewhere deep down, but it’s an old ache, one you’re used to now. He’s been gone eight months to the day, and you think maybe it’s time to put dreams of blue eyes and the smell of fresh-baked bread behind you.

“He’s dead,” you say, as if either of you need reminder, as if neither of you saw it. “I’m not.”

It must be the right thing to say because her arms are around your neck, her mouth is pressed against yours. She tastes like the coffee you had with dinner, and under that something uniquely Johanna, sharp and sweet on your tongue.

“Bedroom,” she says, teeth digging into your lip. “C’mon, Katniss, _please_.”

Oh, she begs so nicely. It’s easy to pull her back into the bedroom, tumble her down on to the bed. She falls back in a sprawl, all long pale limbs against the dark of your comforter. You’ve never wanted anyone like you want this.

Her hand reaches out to you, beckoning, and you go her, let her pull you down. You wonder if this is what happiness feels like: Johanna’s neck under your lips, her stomach under your fingertips. You stare down at her and her eyes are wide and dazed. Her voice is so fragile when she ask, “Is this real?”

You have to kiss her again to hide how much she’s breaking your heart.

-

The Capitol is a cruel thing: it takes and takes and takes.

The Victory Tour might be over, but that doesn’t mean the media circus ever stops. Interview after appearance after photo shoot, fittings for dresses and publicised shopping trips and Effie parading you about for the cameras on a daily basis.

“I’m increasing awareness,” she says sweetly, smiling at you through ice-blue lips.

You try not to glare at her. You won the Hunger Games as one half of a doomed love story, the entire ordeal broadcast for the world to see: there’s no one left in Panem who doesn’t know your face.

Today it’s a studio, microphones and cameras, and Caesar Flickerman’s leering face. “How are you finding the Capitol?” he asks.

“It’s –” No word comes to mind; how can you describe their depravity, their insatiability? “ – good.”

Caesar chuckles. “That’s it? So taciturn all of a sudden.” He leans forward to smile knowingly at you. “Peeta always was the one who had a way with words.”

The very sound of his name makes your heart stutter, but here under the lights you find a way to force a smile onto your face. Fake it ‘til you make it, Haymitch always says.

“The Capitol has been very generous to me,” you say agreeably. “You’ve all shown me such love and support. I’m thinking about making my home here.”

Caesar’s answering grin is blinding. “We’d love to have you,” he booms. “So you’ll be here in the run up to next year’s Quarter Quell? Do you think the tributes from Twelve can bring home another win?”

You can feel your mouth moving, saying, “We can hope,” but your mind is in your kitchen, Haymitch’s hand on your wrist: _their blood’s going to be on your hands_.

Your heart clenches: your hands are already dripping with red; you’d give anything to wash them clean.

-

Johanna likes to be the big spoon, you discover early on. She likes to wrap herself around you, chest to your back, knees up against your knees, her face in her hair. Here, buried under blankets, she doesn’t seem quite so deadly.

“Be their Mockingjay,” Jo whispers, mouth a moment from yours. “Be their figurehead. Help them win.”

Your heart catches: she’s in on it too. You don’t know why you’re surprised; she hangs out with Finnick, drinks with Haymitch, of course they’ve dragged her into it.

“What if Snow finds out?” you ask. Even here in the dark, safe in the circle of Jo’s arms, it feels like his eyes are on you, watching, waiting.

“They’re going to overthrow him,” she says, and her eyes are serious. “If the rebellion works, there’ll be no more Games. No more death.”

And isn’t that a dream you’ve often had. The districts, prosperous and thriving without the Capitol sucking them dry. The children, alive and well without the Hunger Games to prey on them. The world, finally healing without the constant, crippling fear.

But there’s a word in there you don’t like: _if_. You can’t help the suspicion in your voice when you ask, “Do you think it’s going to work? Do you think we can do it?”

Jo’s mouth curves into a delicate smile. “Of course,” she says, a conviction you’ve never seen before flashing in her eyes. “We’re Victors, survivors.” Her hand comes up to slot around your face like it was made to be there. “We’re going to tear this whole thing down.”

-

“I want in,” you say.

The room goes silent around you: Haymitch, Johanna, Cinna, other familiar faces, people you know and love. They’re all willing to lose everything for a taste of freedom; why can’t you?

Cinna’s the one to reach out, drawing you closer with a hand on your arm. “I’m glad you came,” he says, and smiles, warmer than you’ve ever seen.

“I’m curious,” a voice drawls, “As to why now.”

When you look it’s Finnick, lounging on the couch, long legs stretched out into the middle of the room, taking up as much room as he can. His eyebrows are somewhere in his hairline.

“Be grateful,” Haymitch says, but he gives you a knowing look.

You wonder if he knows the way you two crash together like waves against the shore, like clouds in a thunderstorm. The way Johanna likes to press you up against the wall, mouth hot against your skin, two fingers working inside you; the way you like to pin her down on the bed and put your mouth on her until she bucks against you, an endless rhythm until she can’t take it anymore.

Beetee leans forward, the line of his back a carefully curious slope. “Are you sure?” he asks. “This is not going to be easy.”

Jo’s eyes bore into you from across the room and you feel the strength wash over you, the steel growing in your spine. “I need to do this,” you tell him, tell the room.

You say: “For Peeta.” You mean: for Prim, for Johanna, for Haymitch, for all of you.

-

Another day, another letter in your apartment. This one comes with the stench of roses and sloped handwriting that says _partner_ , _female_.

You don’t let your hands shake: not when you dress yourself; not in the car; not when a hand propels you inside; not when Jo sits down opposite you. You can’t look at her; you know you’ll just see your fear reflected right back at you.

“Undress her,” your client says.

Jo’s hands slip up under the thin straps of your dress. This is how she undresses you in the darkness of her bedroom; gentle, reverent. Your mouth forms her name, but she swallows the sound down down down, kisses you until it’s all you can think about.

By the time Jo pulls back from you, you feel like you’re drugged, and you can only blink at her lazily. She smiles sweetly, but there’s something sad lingering there that makes you wrap your hand around her neck and pull her in again.

It turns her hands greedy, devouring your skin: they skim into the dip of your back, over the curve of your ass. With a push she’s moving you backwards until you hit the wall, and she leans in to bite at your neck, vicious and breathtaking.

“Relax,” she breathes, damp against your skin, and her fingers creep along the inside of your thighs, slide through the wetness they find there.

It makes you shake; it makes you moan. In the corner the client is making noise, skin against fabric, filthy wet sounds, but Jo turns your head towards her.

“It’s just me,” she whispers; “It’s just you and me,” and she presses her mouth to yours as her fingers slip inside you.

It feels electric. She’s always known just how to play you, all long fingers curling into the right places, and when you rock into it, Jo buries her grin in the curve of your neck. Seconds, minutes, _hours_ later and it’s building: a crescendo in your blood, heart pounding triple-time, body on fire from the inside out.

You cry is an explosion, and Jo echoes it, the two of you holding each other tight as you burn into ash.

-

She warned you, oh god she warned you. In the middle of the living room, her eyes wide and terrified; she’d never looked like that before, not even in her Games, not even when death was bearing down on her in the form of a Career’s blade.

“He knows,” she’d said; “Snow knows.”

Cinna’s breath had whistled out through his teeth, eyes slipping shut in resignation. Across the room, Jo had collapsed in on herself, spine going liquid under the crushing fear, and you’d gone to her, put your hands on her face and in her hair, pressed your mouth to hers and whispered _I have to do this_ and _please_ and _trust me_.

She’d looked at you: hopeful, full on wonderment; but under it that knowledge that always made her shake at night in the circle of your arms: she knew what was coming.

Lo and behold: three weeks later on your couch in Twelve, Prim a bundle of blonde hair tucked up against your side, Snow’s dark eyes boring into you across a thousand miles.

His voice says: under fourteens. Your mind supplies: Primrose.

You don’t remember screaming but your voice is sore when you wake up.

-

Reaping day, and you’re shaking in your boots: seventeen years old, body tight with tension. You stand next to Haymitch and try to keep your back as straight as you can; Johanna’s voice says _never show them your throat_.

The square is full, people jostling each other, shoving at the barriers: their faces are angry. Amongst them is Primrose, face a beacon in the crowd, clamped tight against your mother’s side like that will protect her from the danger. She’s so small and pale, already a ghost.

“First,” Effie is saying, “The ladies.”

Her long fingers reach down into the bowl, and you can see the way they dig through the papers, nails dark against the white. They curl delicately around a folded card and she lifts slowly, walks back to the microphone. The paper flutters in her hand like a butterfly in the meadow on a summer’s day.

Haymitch’s hand slides through your and you grip tight. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the way the Peacekeeper’s hands are creeping towards their guns.

“Primrose Everdeen,” Effie says.

The crowd roars.


End file.
